


Everything I See I Swallow

by nervoussis



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, I will try to warn but please don't read if it makes you feel uncomfortable or unsafe, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Please be aware of the possibility of triggers, Recreational Drug Use, Semi unrequited love, Suicide Attempt, Tommy Hagan has a crush on Steve Harrington, angel of death - Freeform, each chapter will have posted warnings, king steve, this is a very dark fic, we're all here to have a good time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 06:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26468575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervoussis/pseuds/nervoussis
Summary: "Nancy, I need you to call the police, okay? Call the cops." in-out-in. Deep breaths when Barbara gripped his arm and tugged him close-close-closer.Nancy took off, like.A shot in the dark. A frightened bird let out of his cage.Barbara looked up at him from the floor, from her isle in front of the sink.The bathmats were blue against her skin. Ice and snow.The end."Close the door," She said. "It's cold."--This story is dedicated to every friend who has ever wondered if there's more waiting on the other side, and the one who found out. I miss you so much.Wherever you are, I hope it feels like summer.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington & Barbara "Barb" Holland, Tommy Hagan & Steve Harrington
Comments: 22
Kudos: 59





	1. Don't Fear the Reaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR:  
> Self harm- burning  
> Alcohol  
> Recreational drug use

Sometimes he liked to stand in front of the mirror and poke at them. 

Move them around. Watch the fluid pulsate under that filmy layer of skin, painful against the rosy tenure of his flesh. He crafted each one with precision; the lighter was most important. Steve had tried all kinds--bic, zippo, candle wax, gas light, cigarette burns--but nothing compared to matches. Sometimes the blisters went away in a couple hours and other times they didn’t. Anytime he used a match his milky flesh would go through the stages.

Burn, char, and blister. Slow and painful, right down the line like clockwork, each one perfect. A masterpiece. A symphony of color and pain reminding him that it isn’t normal to feel absolutely nothing.

Steve liked it best when they stuck around. 

He pinched the blood blister on his leg and watched with slack-jawed torment as the scarlet ribbon got tangled in his leg hair. A few drops hit the pristine marble floor and Steve brought his fingers to rub against the mirror.

“Pretty,” He whispered.

The matches worked best.

\--

Steve was full of shadowy spaces.

Ugly things. Hidden truths. Emptiness, hollow like the feeling of being awake too early without breakfast. He’d given up on trying to hide it a long time ago. Around the time his parents moved to Chicago _for work_ and the silence became so loud that Steve was drowning in it.

He didn’t really want to die.

Contrary to what his doctor said, Steve _didn’t_ want to die, he just _lacked proper attention._ A boy as bright and handsome as Steve Harrington couldn’t “really,” wish for death. Not when so many cucks would kill to take three steps in his worn Nikes.

No; The burns were a cry for help. The isolation was a statement. The beer, the weed, the terrible grades and shitty attitude--Steve was a wounded bird in need of rescuing. Steve didn’t want to die, he just _lacked proper attention._

Dr. Meyers was a quack, but.

In many ways he was right. Annoyingly, _frustratingly_ accurate about some things. Way out in left field with others--Steve learned quickly that his psychiatrist was hit or miss.

But he was right about that.

Steve craved attention. The look of fear, of lust. The _desire_ of anyone who would give it. If they tried to bury their adoration in the attics of their minds and pile things on top of it, adamant that _Steve Harrington is an asshole,_ he had a way of charming his way inside.

Climbing the stairs and removing those boxes to let their adoration run free. And they always gave in, eventually. It happened in the fifth grade with Tommy and again with Nancy Wheeler. He charmed his way through life and convinced them that he didn’t bite, that he wasn't really as bad as everyone said he was.

And they believed him.

So, no. Steve didn’t want to die. 

He deserved it. But he was the King, after all.

\--

The first time Nancy Wheeler saw his burn marks she threw up in the trash can. And that had made Steve feel like shit.

“What the fuck _happened_ to you?” 

He put his shirt back on just so her eyes would stop welling up like that. She was embarrassing herself. “You don’t like them?”

She smirked. “You’re joking, right?”

He wasn’t.

But he was good on his feet and better in bed. Steve shrugged his shoulders and made up some bullshit story about lighter fluid and a stack of fireworks. Nancy tucked her hair behind her ears and Steve thought, for a horrible, endless moment that maybe she wouldn’t believe him.

She kept him on his toes. It was one of the things Steve liked most about her.

Nancy pursed her lips in that tell-tale way and Steve tripped over himself to formulate an excuse. As soon as the words _Tommy_ and _the Fourth of July_ flitted past his lips Nancy burst out laughing. 

Bought it hook line and sinker.

“Good,” She hiccuped. It was cute. Steve wanted to fuck her brains out. “I thought for a minute that maybe--”

“Don’t think.” He rasped against the supple skin of her neck. 

“Steve--”

She broke off with a moan as Steve bit down on her shoulder. That kind of shit drove Nancy wild--the carnality, the passion. Virgins always reacted that way and Steve lapped it up like water on a hot day. She wrapped her legs around his waist and ground their hips together.

Steve swallowed a grin.

He was getting into Nancy Wheeler’s pants tonight, come hell or high water. 

And then, because she had to ruin it; “I thought maybe you’re one of those freaks who hurts themselves.”

Steve found it kind of annoying. Hurtful, but. He snarled against the feeling and went in hard because Nancy liked it that way. Rough and steamy with the lights off. Holding hands under the sheets. Delicate words and cuddles in the moonlight.

Steve couldn’t complain.

\--

Tommy wasn’t afraid of him.

Devoured Steve where he stood most days, sure. Eyes careful on the back of Steve’s head as he played the entire school like a well tuned violin. Aggressive and biting in the best way, but. 

Not afraid. 

Steve ruled with a sweet smile and an iron fist and Tommy appreciated it. Maybe even envied him, just a little, Steve knew, but couldn’t find much to complain about from the position of right hand man.

Steve tried everyday to feel something, anything, and every day fell flat on his face. 

And it wasn’t like he wanted to die. Just grasped at straws trying to feel alive, sometimes. Just like anyone else. 

_Freak_. 

Steve Harrington was not a freak. He felt like one most of the time, though he’d never admit it out loud. Wanted to crawl out of his skin and leave it behind for anyone who felt like playing king for a day but that would make too big a mess, so.

Tommy seemed eager to wear it.

In what way, Steve wasn’t sure.

—

He wanted someone who wouldn’t shy away from him.

Someone who would look at his blood under their fingernails and say _you’re so beautiful, I want you inside of me forever._ He wanted someone to write poems about it. To monologue about grief and anger and rage. 

Steve wanted to disappear.

“There’s a party on Saturday,” Tommy passed the joint. He let their fingertips brush together and Steve hated it. 

“Yeah, so?” He sucked the thing harshly and blew smoke out his nose, already pissed off. “There’s a party every Saturday night,”

Tommy seemed eager to lighten the mood.

“This one’s at the quarry, man.” He reported.

Steve squinted at the T.V., its glow too bright in the shadow of his basement. “So the cops’ll bust it up before Midnight, what’s the big deal?”

“The big _deal,_ oh Mighty King Steve, is that we have to maintain our record.”

Such a fucking kiss ass. 

Steve snorted at the possibility that anyone at Hawkins High would dare encroach on his 40 second keg stand. That anyone had the balls big enough to try after a standing record of over two years.

Steve rolled his eyes. 

“Doubt we gotta worry about that, Tommy Boy,” He grinned, trading the joint for a beer. “Who’s gonna beat us? Anthony Tanner?” Steve chucked, shaking his head. “Nah. Guys a pussy.”

Tommy shrugged his shoulders anyway. 

“Could be fun.” He murmured. 

Tommy said that a lot these days. _Could be fun,_ like maybe Steve needed cheering up after that blister popped on Nancy Wheeler’s face when she was sucking his dick and she dumped his ass for good. 

The whole school knew about it by Monday morning. 

Everyone was too afraid to laugh in Steve’s face, but. Tommy stopped people from talking in any way he could. 

Maybe the asshole wasn’t so bad.

Steve sighed, leaning forward on the couch to light a cigarette. “This piece of shit party really that important to you?” The thing bobbed up and down as he spoke.

Tommy’s eyes tracked the movement. 

“Yeah,” he breathed.

Steve nodded sharply. Once, twice, sucking on his cigarette to make the kid sweat it out a little. He liked making Tommy squirm, sue him. 

Finally, he grinned. 

“Then party we shall.”

—

The first time Tommy saw Steve’s burn marks he asked to put his mouth on them. 

“Wanna taste you,” he said. 

And they were on six tabs of acid so Steve let him. Because Tommy had a pretty mouth and freckles that probably tasted like chocolate and he hadn’t gotten laid since Nancy Wheeler.

Tommy was too gentle. 

Like he might hurt Steve. Like maybe he wouldn’t enjoy it. 

“Take me apart.” Steve said. 

As always, Tommy obeyed.

—

“Why do you do that to yourself.”

They were drunk. The music was loud and annoying and Steve just wanted to sit on the edge of the cliff for a while. 

He liked it up here. 

Liked the view of the treetops, how sharp the waves were from such a height. Like tiny razor blades. Steve held his hand above an open flame and teased at his skin just a little, watching as it charred from the heat. 

Steve shrugged his shoulders. “Feels good.” 

Tommy snorted. 

“How can it feel good,” He leaned forward into Steve’s space, backing up when he got a steely glare in return. “You’re burnin’ your goddamn _skin_ off, Harrington.” Tommy shook his head, lips attaching to the spout of his beer. “Nah. Only freaks do that shit to themselves.”

Steve gave a single wave of his hand and Tommy vanished back into the party. 

Ever obedient. 

Ever docile. 

Steve felt bad for a split second and then sighed into the relief of solitude. The ambient noises of the party provided a nice soundtrack to the evening. 

Being alone up here was different than sitting in an empty house. In an empty room. In an empty bed. 

He’d rather die than sleep alone. 

Hundreds of feet below the waves crashed against the rocks and Steve felt himself inch forward, little by little until his legs hung over the edge of the cliff. 

Just one step further and—

Steve sucked a ragged breath in through his nose and brought the lighter against his skin without a second thought. The metal seared a hole and he winced, leaning into the feeling. 

He didn’t want to die, okay? 

He didn’t.

“Shouldn’t sit so close to the edge like that,” a voice reported helpfully. ”Though you’d make a cute milk carton kid.” 

Steve licked the blood from his fingers. “Know what I’m doing, asshole.” He said.

The sound of heavy boots on gravel drew Steve’s attention upward, away from the waves and toward the prettiest human being he had ever seen.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes, cut muscles, perfect teeth flashing white hot under the moonlight. The guy was a fucking prince.

Steve didn’t know someone like that could exist in Hawkins. 

The boy grinned from his spot on the grass and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Mind if I sit down, pretty boy?”

Steve should’ve kicked his teeth in for speaking like that, but. 

Not like anyone was around to listen. 

He nodded. The boy grinned again and huffed as he swung his legs over the edge of the cliff with ease. “Got a light?” He asked. A cigarette had suddenly materializing between a set of pretty pink lips and Steve couldn’t think about anything else, so.

He lit it for him. 

The guy had long eyelashes. Steve wanted to comb his hair with them, holy shit. “You go to Hawkins High?”

Prince Charming snorted. “This shit hole? Nah. From California, originally.” 

Steve should have guessed. 

No one who looked and _smelled_ like that could be from bumfuck Indiana. Steve flinched when Princey held out his cigarette, eyebrows lifted in a question. 

And Steve had smoked through his pack an hour ago, so. 

He took a hit. “How’d you end up at the worst party in the country, California?”

“Visiting, you could say.”

Steve nodded. “Visiting.”

California grinned. “That’s what I said.”

Steve sucked on the cigarette and stared out over the water. Wished those blue eyes would look somewhere else, just for a second. Didn’t like how closely they watched him. 

“You could jump, you know.” 

Steve recoiled like he’d been slapped. “What?”

Prince Charming took the cigarette from Steve’s lips and made a show of resting the tip of his tongue against the filter. 

He grinned again, all teeth.

Steve wanted to smack his face clean of that smirk.

“I said you could go home.” The boy muttered. And Steve was a thousand percent sure that he had said something else, but.

“What makes you think I wanna go home?”

“Pretty boy like you sitting on the edge of a cliff, all by himself, while the mouth breathers have all the fun?” California shook his head, curls bouncing to and fro. “Not fooling anyone.” 

Steve wasn’t trying to fool anyone. 

Was just trying to disappear, actually, and had been mildly successful until this asshole showed up. He snatched the cigarette back again with a sigh. 

“Home’s too quiet.”

That seemed to interest the boy. His ears practically stood at attention. “What’s that mean?”

“Means I’d rather die than go home to an empty house tonight.” Steve didn’t know why he said it. He never talked about shit like this. Not with Dr. Meyers, not with Tommy, not even with Nace when things had been good. 

He felt naked, spilling his guts to a stranger. Still, his mouth didn’t stop moving. Plowing through the stone in his belly while blue eyes pinned him in place. 

“Mom and dad haven’t been home in a while and, uh. The meds aren’t working anymore.” He expected Prince Charming to call him a freak. A sicko, a mess. 

Instead he frowned. “Is that why you called?” 

And. 

“Huh?” Steve asked. 

“Do you have anyone you can call.” He ran a hand through his hair. 

Steve blinked. “I heard what you said the first—“

The look on California’s face shut him up. 

“No one.” Steve concluded. “I don’t have anyone.” Again, another truth that felt like it was being yanked from the steely pit of his stomach. 

Shit he’d never admit out loud, left naked and squirming as Prince Charming looked him up and down. 

Finally; “Call me anytime.” 

“Yeah. Okay, Goldilocks.” Steve snorted, turning back to look out over the waves. What a fucking laugh. He’d have to tell Tommy about it later. 

“I mean it,” that honey-rough voice whispered. “Call me.” 

Steve opened his mouth to bite back. To bruise, when a card was slid into the pocket of his bomber jacket. He pulled it out immediately, turning it over in his hands.

The card was empty.

“Hey, what’s—“ when Steve looked in the space next to him the boy was gone, the gravel left undisturbed in his wake. 

  
  
  
  



	2. House of Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pair this one with:  
> Neverland, by the Sisters of Mercy.
> 
> They're my absolute favorite. That's the song Steve is listening to at the second party, in my head. Music helps me envision the ~vibe~ of a scene lol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR:  
> Alcohol consumption  
> Recreational Drug Use  
> (honestly, just expect those warnings for a while)  
> A dare gone (almost) Horribly wrong...
> 
> If you want to skip that bit it begins with:  
> "Steve turned to face the crowd,"  
> and ends with:  
> "Steve woke up in the dirt."

His parents came home every other week. Blew into town like a well contained tornado and dropped their expensive luggage in the foyer, staking their claim again in Steve’s life. It wasn’t that he hated his parents, he just hated being around them. They were too loud and too vibrant, fussing over him to make up for their absentee affection. 

Most days Steve didn’t have the energy to pretend like he looked forward to their visits because every one began the same.

His mother would tuck the hair behind his ears and complain about the piles of laundry on his bedroom floor. She’d chide him for sleeping with the doors unlocked and all the windows open; _Stevie you could get hurt. You could die._ And His father would shut the conversation down at that; _the boy can look after himself, Helen._

And Charles was right. Steve could take care of himself, he just chose not to.

So his mother would do his laundry.

And cook him dinner. 

And ask if he needed any money for the upcoming week while they sat around the table and played Nuclear Family for the invisible cameras. They ate their dry chicken and asked about his friends; _how’s Tommy these days_ and _any lucky girls on the radar for homecoming?_

Steve hated when they came home to visit, and he hated himself for going along. For smiling and playing the part of the stable, loving son.

It was all bullshit.

The Harrington's thrived on telling lies. Putting on bi-weekly shows to stop ole Stevie from killing himself; his parents would drop in and play pretend for a day only to stick Steve in the toybox when they grew it tired of him. It was a chore. And though his parents tried to avoid making him feel like shit, Dr. Meyer’s direct orders to _treat Steve like glass_ , every visit ended the same.

His father was aloof. Distant. Embarrassed to have a son that required coddling and therapy to feel like a man, though he never said as much to Steve’s face. It was just a feeling, you could say, shrouded in overheard conversations and drunken fights with his mother in the wee hours of the morning when they thought their wounded bird was asleep.

One of them would see Steve's burn marks and that was it.

_Why the hell am I paying for therapy if it isn't working._

_Charles--_

_Helen. Don’t._ A first to the table. A swig of gin. _Not another penny_ _i_ _f he’s gonna carve himself up like a goddamn Thanksgiving turkey._

So Steve would emerge from the shadows and promise to get better, fingers crossed behind his back, and his parents would be satisfied for another two weeks. They always left the morning after. 

Steve hated when they came home to visit.

\--

Tommy's freckles didn't taste like chocolate they tasted like salt.

And sweat when Steve got his fingers up his shirt.

And vanilla when he blushed from embarrassment and lust and release and something else, something darker. "I think I'm falling in love with you," He said when the bed finally stopped creaking.

Steve lit a cigarette because love was off limits.

He passed it over anyway. "What about Carol?" It was only a question, bred from curiosity of what the other boy would say and not an invitation to take their _whatever_ beyond the confines of boredom and relapsed sobriety. Steve flexed his knuckles just in case as Tommy stuck the cigarette in his mouth.

"What _about_ Carole?" 

Steve slipped his shirt back on, indifferent to the poison in Tommy's voice. As long as they got to keep doing this it wasn't really his business, anyway.

Apparently, Tommy expected him to say it back.

His eyes started to fog up like he was chasing a high from the feeling of Steve's avoidance. He got like that sometimes; clingy, desperate for affection and attention and something almost like tolerance. Steve hated it.

"You're falling in love with me, too?" Tommy whispered.

And his skin tasted different when he got wrapped up in his feelings. His freckles moved farther away from hearth and spices and closer to citrus--summer days. Something like lemons and rosemary, bright and addictive.

Steve didn't love Tommy.

Didn't even _like_ Tommy sometimes, but. 

"Yeah, sure." Steve said. 

Because he got high on the taste.

\--

Steve was so drunk that he almost didn't notice when Tommy wrapped his arm around his neck. 

Almost didn't hate it when Tommy tried to pull him close, away from the girl and her soft hands, as if to stake a claim. As if to make a statement.

_We belong to each other._

Tommy asked the pretty girl if she had ever sucked a dick.

She said no.

Tommy told her Steve liked it wet and sloppy--that he liked to be consumed.

He was fucking sloshed, talking too loudly about private things but no one took it seriously. No one ever took him seriously. The captain of the swim team laughed and called him a faggot, but it was all in good fun; Tommy didn't notice.

The girl shifted under his stare.

Tommy asked, voice rocky and aggressive, if she'd be willing to do that for Steve. If she'd bounce on his dick and make him forget the shadowy places, asked it like the answer was life or death. She said she didn't know, didn't _realize--_ Tommy's arms tightened around Steve's neck as she sulked away.

Steve told him to fuck off.

\--

Dr. Meyers’ office smelled like onions. Steve read somewhere that aromatic vegetables can help with circulation and brain flow. 

He leaned back in the chair. “Do you have a quack, Dr. Meyers?” Steve wondered if his therapist was sick like him or sick in a different way. 

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that, Steven.” 

“Come on doc, the therapy already isn’t working.” Steve winked at him. “I’m not gonna rat you out to my old man.”

“What do you mean?” Dr. Meyers removed his glasses.

“Dad thinks this is bullshit. Wonder what he’d do if you had a therapist. Probably fire you to find someone who’s well, but.” Steve cocked his head to the side. “Maybe every therapist has a therapist. Like an endless chain of beige rooms and bullshit advice--”

“What you said about the treatment. It isn’t working?”

Steve sighed. “You heard what I said. Why do you always make me repeat myself? You know I hate that.”

“You seem more--” The doctor leaned forward, elbows to knees, in a way that made Steve want to mirror him.

So he did. “I seem more _what?_ Tired? Horny? Aggressive?”

“Energetic. Than usual, I mean.” Dr. Meyers leaned back in his chair, considering. “Did something happen this week? Something good?”

Steve thought about the quarry. Tommy and the beer and the rocks of the cliff digging into the back of his knees. He thought of the boy and the moonlight on his hair. The white card in his jacket pocket.

He thought about the pretty girl and Tommy's arms around his shoulders.

Steve grinned. “Nothing good ever happens.”

\--

He felt like he was swimming.

Sloshing through the water, neck deep in warmth and wavy good grace. A joint was shoved between his fingers; music played from everywhere all at once. 

_They are coming down_  
_But we will_  
_Never never land..._

Steve felt it in his bones. Breathing in his ribs, rearranging his thoughts into something lyrical and bright with the thump of the bass under his feet. Someone was talking, standing on a table. Making demands. 

Steve felt like a king, collapsed in his throne, as all eyes turned to him.

Steve _was_ the king. 

"Truth or dare?" They asked. Like this was a kindergarten field trip. He noticed the thirteen other people all sat in a circle, watching eagerly as he lifted an eyebrow, slung his leg over the arm of the chair. Someone asked for their joint back, loud and incessant, but Steve just threw money at it until it went away. The handed him a second joint.

"Dare." Steve lit both.

_I had a face on the mirror_  
_I had a hand on the gun..._

He puffed on his joint while the jester made his proposition. "Hang yourself." The fool said.

Steve felt like he was swimming. "With what?"

They stared at him, twenty-six fish eyes bugging like the crystal surfaces of those punch bowls they always had at prom. 

Steve never backed down from a dare. The Fool undid his belt. Held it, dangling from one finger, in the air between them like a challenge.

Steve grinned.

"Don't be stupid," Someone else said. "That'll kill him."

But it wasn't like it mattered anymore.

Tommy was done. Had decided to sit this one out because Steve was _a massive tool_ or something. _Not worth the air in his lungs._

_Not worth anything. You're fucking useless, Harrington._

_I'm done with you._

That's what Tommy said.

Steve didn't care. He already felt like he was drowning when the buckle caught and gleamed under the lights. 

Leather.

Strong and sturdy in Steve's hands as the King's jester led him out the back door and across the field. They came to a waddling stop in front of a dingy tool shed. 

_With the wind in our face_  
_And our arms open wide_  
_We will pass through this place_  
_To the other side..._

Steve turned to face the growing crowd.

Someone pulled a stool out from behind the door. Someone else helped him position himself under the awning, so he could die staring into the fish eyes of his peers. He saw everything nestled there, every fear anyone has ever had; awe, jealousy, indifference, relief, worry, hate, anger, sadness.

And one other.

Invitation. 

California was leaning against the wall of the house, one leg tucked under him as he smoked one of Steve's joints. He cocked his head to the side. Chin jutting forward in a challenge as Steve fastened the belt loop to the sturdy wooden banister ahead.

The leather sat snug against his throat. Like a dog collar.

or a hand.

or a rope, the ones he'd seen in movies.

  
_Too much but never enough_  
_Tear it up and watch it fall..._

He watched as California pushed himself off the wall hips first, clearly interested. Invested in whatever King Steve was trying to prove to his loyal subjects. Steve cocked an eyebrow, relishing the grin that spread itself like butter across those ruby red lips. He prepared to take the first and final step into oblivion and wondered if Tommy would miss him.

Probably not, but it didn't make a difference. Steve didn't feel nervous, he felt.

Excited. Relieved.

California lifted his hand in a lazy two finger salute and...

Steve closed his eyes.

\--

He didn't feel like his legs were moving.

Weren't they supposed to be flailing around? 

He'd seen it happen in films, when the protagonist inevitably hung themselves with bed sheets or copper wires, but. This was different. Peaceful, as his hands went to grip the leather vice around his throat. 

Steve wasn't trying to tear himself out of it because--

It didn't feel like anything.

He counted the seconds. His body swung back and forth. His vision began to darken around the edges like he'd been starring into the sun for too long.

Someone was screaming for their mother.

Someone else was trying to pull him down--Steve wanted to laugh but his breath was caught somewhere in his chest.

There was restless motion.

Everywhere, in and around him, too loud to match the endless peace he felt blooming like a flower in his chest. There were screams and panic, fear--one thousand girls raising their arms to rip him from the banister.

No one noticed the boy moving through the crowd.

No one saw the look on his eyes as he stood at the very center, eyes focused on Steve's throat. He didn't look afraid.

Steve didn't need to be afraid.

He felt safe, swimming in those baby blues.

"I'm here," California said. He took another step forward until he was standing near Steve's chest. 

The boy reached forward. His fingertips brushed over Steve's lips, caressing the hills and valleys of his face, silent and gentle like a prayer before dawn and. 

Holy shit.

Were those wings?

"Let go," The boy said. He smiled softly. "Come on, baby. Let go."

\--

Steve woke up in the dirt.

All around him people were crying. He thought he was dead, but. The banister had collapsed under his weight. Someone shoved a cup of water into his hands.

"You're okay, pretty boy." California was crouched over him like he'd given Steve CPR or something.

Maybe he had. Steve felt like he'd gone three rounds with a blender.

Someone had their hands under his arms. He was be lifted, up and out of the dirt while the crowds of people thinned.

And thinned some more.

And kept thinning as they realized Steve was okay, until he was left with California and the Fool. 

"That was kinda awesome," The jester grinned. He clapped a sweaty, drunk hand on Steve's shoulder, heavy with sentiment. "Legendary."

And then they were alone.

"No offense," The boy muttered, "But your friends are idiots."

Steve chuckled. It hurt. "These assholes aren't my friends."

California took the empty cup from Steve's hands and filled it with the garden hose. He brought it to Steve's mouth, watching as he gulped on it. "What, don't you have any friends, pretty boy?"

Steve swallowed thickly and swiped a hand across his mouth. "Don't call me that."

California grinned. "What, don't like it?"

"Don't agree," Steve nearly bit down on his tongue to stop it from wagging--something about that asshole made him honest. The boy nodded thoughtfully; like after a second of look it could be possible that Steve was just as ugly and unremarkable as the rest.

And he was, but.

Not like anyone needed to know.

"Wanna get out of here?" Steve's mouth said.

The boy stared at him. Shrugged his shoulders and produced the joint from behind his ear. He inhaled slowly with his eyes on Steve's face, dissecting and peeling back layer after layer like the moment was heavy and important. 

Finally, he shook his head. "If you're tryna get laid I'm not your girl."

Steve really did chuckle at that. "House is empty."

"Always empty, right?" California kept smoking his joint. After a while he shook his head again. "I dunno, Harrington. I almost got what I came here for, but. No reason to stick around since that fell through, y'know?"

His eyes were heavy on Steve's face.

California licked his lips. "You gonna give me a reason, pretty boy?"

And.

Steve felt like he was missing something, wished he had the intelligence to glue it all together, but.

"Got more weed in my bedroom." He grinned sheepishly. "That reason enough?"

California considered this. 

And Steve just stood there, like an idiot, his throat hurting and his dick swelling in his jeans for some fucking reason. 

Finally, the boy sighed. "Better than nothing." He took one final pull from the joint and tossed it into the weeds, his eyes flitting over Steve's face with something almost like amusement but not quite. He cocked his head to the side.

"Lead the way, baby."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle reminder to please read the posted warnings for each chapter. If I miss anything PLEASE let me know, we must protect ourselves and each other, that's what a community is all about.  
> Thank you so much for reading. Your kudos/feedback fuel my fire to keep writing and I appreciate each of you for your kindness and support.  
> Just love ya, wow.


	3. Nightbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) come away
> 
> The song they're listening to in this chapter is:  
> Sara, by Fleetwood Mac (specifically the Stevie Nicks: Live from Chicago version)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR  
> Graphic Depictions of Self Harm  
> Assisted Self Harm  
> Mentions of Suicide attempts
> 
> (This is NOT romanticization, so please: grasp the concept that maybe people cope with mental illness (((me included))) in several different ways, and those methods are not always pretty & neatly packaged. Maybe we are not always the perfect victim. I'm not condoning self harm. As a survivor--this is very real. This is real for me. This is therapeutic. I never see people write self harm like it happened for me so, please; I'm asking you right now; get a grip and know the difference between reality and fiction. Thanks <3)

It wasn't a house it was a castle.

And a deserted isle in the snow.

And the shape of whatever he needed it to be, but many times it fell short of his expectations.

Steve spent years parading up and down the halls with sock feet, poking in and out of various rooms and cupboards trying to harness the magic that he sometimes felt permeating from his friends houses. Tommy's family room was full of light--like Mrs. Hagan had somehow caught a moon beam in her hands and sprinkled it like pixie dust over the furniture to cultivate light and life. 

Nancy's house was a hundred-acre wood. At every turn there existed burrows of solitude, but not the kind of loneliness that existed within the four walls of the Harrington house. No, at the Wheeler's no matter how far one retreated within the shelter of their own company there was always the sounds of a village to tether you to the ground. 

Steve's house wasn't like that at all.

Because it wasn't a house it was a fortress. 

And a prison, a barricade with cracks and worries in the foundation, an empty train station just after nightfall. The Harrington mansion wore silence like a cloak of mystery and though Steve struggled to harness some of what his friends lived with everyday, though he longed to pocket some of that magic and store it for the endless nights alone in the dark, it always felt wrong.

Comfortable existing just this side of enough.

Just this side of bearable.

It wasn't a house it was a mote that Steve built is love around.

\--

He pulled the Beemer into the driveway and cut the engine, passing the roach to California. 

"Nice digs," The boy whistled with all the wonder and anticipation that Tommy had, when they were growing up. Like the house really was a castle, a wood, a source of light. California took a hit and passed it back with a smirk. "Could get used to this."

"Not very polite to invite yourself over." Steve was mostly joking. He took the roach and inhaled what he could before tossing it out the window. California only grinned wider as Steve lead the way to the front door. 

It wasn't a house, it was a sears catalogue. 

Meant to impress the ever present crowd of nosy neighbors and those on payroll. Steve kicked his shoes off, biting back surprise when California did the same. The boy's dirty boots in the foyer made the space feel. Lived in. Steve suppressed a shudder as he lead the way upstairs--two joints at shitty high school party weren't enough, Steve needed.

More.

So much more.

His bedroom was cloaked in soft light, the moon shining brightly through the open window. California took in the space, moving around the bed to pick things off the book shelf before setting them back down again. Steve tried to ignore the way his skin glowed from the light of the moon as he dug around in his dresser for the cigarette box his grandad had given him for Christmas.

Steve gestured to the window seat. "Make yourself at home." 

California winked and sat with his back to the room, head poking out the window to survey the backyard. "Ah man, you got a pool too?" His big blue eyes turned to Steve, wonder and confusion warring on his face. It was almost...cute? "Why's it covered up?" He asked.

The window seat was warm despite the chill in the air.

Warm with the boy in the space next to him. 

Warm in a way it had never been before.

"It's October?" Steve flicked his lighter, sealing the crease in the fresh blunt. He took a hasty pull and handed it over, entranced by the way California's pretty red lips sealed around the end of it. The way his throat expanded with each inhale. "Also, I tried to drown myself last summer."

California stared at him. "Do that shit a lot?"

Steve didn't know why he said it.

"What'd you mean?"

"That little stunt at the party, just." The boy shrugged, sealing his lips around the blunt again. Pulling until a cloud of smoke obscured his features. "You were calm. Too calm, like you'd done it before."

Steve blamed the weed. The soft glow of the moon. The gentle curl to the boy's blonde hair, for how he opened like a book under his gaze.

"Sometimes," Steve concluded. Didn't see a point in hiding the truth from a complete stranger. He took another pull. _puff-puff-pass._ "You ever tried it?"

California snorted. "You're hardly the first sad sack I've come across." He regarded Steve through heavy lidded eyes. "What stopped you?"

And Steve was confused.

Lost in a sea of blue and gold. "Huh?"

The boy handed the joint back, eyes flicking to Steve's fingers as they brushed against his. "What got in the way? You know, why didn't you pull the trigger."

"My mom wouldn't be able to handle seeing the body." Steve said bluntly.

Because it was true. Helen was a lot of things, but. 

Tough wasn't one of them.

"So, you do shitty little stunts for _what?_ Attention?" California tracked Steve's lips as they found the blunt again. Tracked the dart of his tongue across the corner of his mouth. 

"Guess so."

Blue eyes narrowed in Steve's face, skeptical. "That's kinda shitty, Harrington."

"Yeah, well." Steve lit another joint. "I'm kinda shitty. Complete bullshit, shitty. Or so I've been told."

They lapsed into silence. Smoking, sharing breath and wing in the dreadful silence of Hawkins after nightfall. Steve could feel the boy's eyes on the side of his face, the gentle brush of his thoughts as if they were autumn leaves in the brisk air. He got up to retrieve more weed, just for something to do, his legs floating a foot off the floor with the high coursing through his veins. Steve flipped through his record collection, turning to find the boy watching him.

He was beautiful.

Steve hadn't really thought about it until now, but. He was. Handsome and classic in the sense that he wouldn't be out of place on the gossamer pages of a magazine. Steve was kind of blown away as California smiled at him. Soft and sweet and so, so beautiful. 

It filled Steve with...something.

Something like light and warmth. Instantly he wanted to taste those lips, climb into that lap and grasp at the boy's shoulders, but.

He didn't. Steve held up an album. "You mind Fleetwood Mac?"

"Love 'em," The boy admitted, and. Okay.

Steve took the record from its sleeve and let the music lap over him like gentle waves.

_Drowning in the sea of love_   
_Where everyone would love to drown_   
_But now it's gone_   
_It doesn't matter what for_   
_When you build your house_   
_Call me..._

Steve focused on rolling another joint. On the routine of building something so fragile with his hands, hyper aware of those blue eyes watching him all the while. Steve looked out the window, over the treetops and wondered where Tommy was tonight. If he was okay, if he was getting fucked up too.

Who he was getting fucked up with.

Finally, the boy spoke: "You aren't shit."

Steve stared at him. "See, that would mean something to me if we actually knew each other." He lifted the fresh joint to California's lips, lighting it for him, hypnotized by the way the warm spark flickered and cast shadows across his cheekbones.

The boy sucked on it, watching Steve as the smoke trailed through his lungs. 

He exhaled. "I know your type."

"My type?" Steve deadpanned.

_Now it's gone, it doesn't matter anymore..._

_If you build your house, then call me._

_Home..._

"Yup. Pretty rich boys, bored in their ivory tower. Intent on destroying everything in their path to avoid actually feeling anything real." California leaned forward into Steve's space, eyes searching like he was peeling back the layers. "Dated a guy like you once upon a time."

And Steve hadn't known people could be so open about it.

So blunt.

"Sadness sucks the life outta you until your only options are to eat or be eaten." California watched the emotions filter across Steve's face. He smirked. "But you already know that, don't you?"

"What's your name." Steve asked.

The boy just grinned wider. "Don't got one."

"Bullshit."

"Ain't bullshittin' ya, princess." California took another drag before passing the thing to Steve. And he could watch the smoke curl from those lips forever, if that's what it took. "Had one at some point. But that was a long time ago." The boy's voice was far away. Sad, almost, like he really was telling the truth.

Steve thought about it. Finally; "How do you know my name, then?"

"Doesn't everyone know the King?"

"Do you answer every question with a question?" Steve passed the joint over and flicked the lighter a couple times, waving his fingers above the flame. "Come on, we're two ships passing in the night or whatever--"

The boy laughed.

Steve smiled. "You can tell me. I'm sharing my weed with you, I demand you give me something in return."

"Once a king, always a king, right?" California stuck his tongue between his teeth. Finally, he nodded. "Alright, pretty boy. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Which.

Steve faltered, panic dancing across his face as as the Boy lifted his shirt up over his head.

All across his chest a spiderweb of scars ran from peck to peck. Clustered in the middle like something had clawed its way through his chest. The light caught on the ridges and valleys of the scar tissue, creating a little pathway where Steve's fingers could trail.

Where his mouth could chase his fingerprints, if he had the guts.

_Hold on--_

_The night is coming. And the starling flew for days..._

"Used to hurt myself too." The boy said softly. He ran his middle finger along the length of the largest scar. "Tree limb."

"Bullshit, that's not possible."

Something dangerously close to anger cast a shadow across California's beautiful features, bristling at Steve's words as he let the shirt settle against his skin. "The fuck does that mean?"

"I _mean_ there's no way you did that to yourself and lived." Steve sucked on the joint, shaking his head in disbelief. "What really happened? Did you carve yourself up with a fuckin' sword or something?"

"No." The boy snarled. "Crashed my car into a tree. Was fuckin' around with one of my friends mom's, ruined their family and shit, so. Tried to take myself out of the situation permanently."

And Steve hadn't been expecting that. 

He didn't know what to say, didn't know what to _do_ so he passed the joint. Watched as California sucked it all the way down.

Watched the tension drain from his lips.

Steve swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"S'okay pretty, boy. Made my bed, you know?" California smiled at him. Hallow, dry. "Gonna show me yours?"

_I stay home at night. All the time._

_I would go anywhere..._

_anywhere, anywhere; ask me and I will be there..._

"I, uh." Steve rubbed the palms of his hands across his jeans. "I don't--"

"Come on, princess." California inched closer, the deep blue of his eyes pulling Steve under like the waves in the ocean. His fingers came up to trace the swell of Steve's bottom lip just like before. 

When he was hanging from the rafters.

When the boy had wings sprouting from his back.

Steve opened his mouth to speak, to say he wasn't a pussy, when California took a hit and blew the smoke into Steve's mouth. Lips hovering close but not touching, lips slotted together in that near warmth that made Steve's head spin.

"I showed you mine," The boy drawled when Steve spit the smoke out of his own mouth. California grinned, tugging on the hem of Steve's sweater. "And from the way you've been fingering that lighter all night, I'd say you have some too."

Which.

He did.

_Said Sara, you're the poet in my heart..._

Steve stood on shaky legs.

With his back to the windows, to the world, to the boy, he began undressing. Slowly at first, clumsy fingers pulling his sweater up over his head.

Shedding his t-shirt.

Then his pants.

Until Steve was laid naked and bare with his pale green boxers shining like the flame from a candle in the moonlight. A neon sign pointing to the hardon he had been trying to hide. When he turned around again California's eyes were wide and searching, unwavering on the trail of burn marks littering Steve's chest and thighs.

He regarded Steve like he was a painting in a museum. Or a pile of garbage. Or a work of art.

It was different than the way Nancy had stared at him.

Different than Tommy, or himself, it was.

Something like reverence.

Something like love.

Steve sucked in a breath as the boy stood and took a tentative step forward. Then another, and another, until he was a breath away from Steve's face.

Until Steve could feel the heat that was shimmering on his skin.

_All I ever wanted is_ _to know that you are dreaming._

_There's a heartbeat, and it never really dies..._

_No it never really dies._

_Won't you swallow all your pride..._

California blinked wide, teary eyes at him. "Do you want me to hurt you?" He asked.

And Steve. 

He liked matches the best. Liked the way they painted his skin in differing shades of black and red and purple. Liked to do it himself because it made it feel more real, more intimate. But with the beautiful boy--

and his hands on Steve's waist, brushing like autumn leaves against his skin--

and the deep blue of his stare--

and the sweet sounds of his breathing--

Steve nodded. California lifted the lighter to the skin of Steve's neck and flicked it on once. Quickly, eyes widening in shock when Steve let out a breathy moan. 

It felt like coming apart and coming together at the same time.

It felt like drowning and swimming.

The beginning and the end.

_And the wind became_

_Crazy...Won't you speak a little louder to me._

The boy did it again. And again, and again. Eyes wide and unblinking as Steve stared right back. 

"Close your eyes," He whispered.

"What--"

"Do it." The boy demanded.

Steve closed his eyes. Felt the brush of fingertips against his skin, the press of lips against the tender flesh of his throat and then--

_There's a heartbeat and it never really dies..._

The boy was gone.


	4. New Orleans (and a Whole Lotta Trouble)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) this feeling follows me wherever I go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> Mentions/depictions of self harm (burning)  
> Masturbation  
> Character Death, but. Yall are used to this one passing on. Miss Barbara Holland, ladies and they's.  
> Drug use  
> Overdose

After that night in his bedroom with the boy and the weed and the window, Steve's skin was left unmarked. Smooth and glassy, bright, like the surface of a birdbath or the fountain in Italy his mother had given him a roll of quarters to feed. _Why do I have to feed it,_ he asked. The roundabout was cracked and covered in moss. Like a witches cauldron or a lake in the woods back home. 

_Feed it?_ _It's not the cookie monster._ Charles teased.

The timbre of his mother's answering laugh was like a windchime caught in a tree. Only Steve's dad could make her sound like that, it was Steve's favorite sound in the whole wide world. _You have to make a wish, kiddo._ She said.

 _I have to pay for it?_

_Yup, just like how we pay for everything else in life._ His dad said wistfully. _The Fae are a greedy people._

Steve stared at the heavy roll of quarters in his hand, unconvinced. _Well, what do I wish for?_ He asked, legs flailing wildly when his father pulled him up-up-up so his brand new Nike's were clinging to the moss covered ledge. Steve toed a lump, watching it tumble into the crystal clear bowl.

His father held Steve's hand so he wouldn't fall into the water. _Ask for a million kisses from a million pretty girls._

 _Charles!_ His mother smiled at her husband then, all twinkly and soft like a princess in a fairy tale book. She reached out for the man, cooing like a baby bird when Steve's father folded himself around her. When he hummed and peppered gentle, lingering kisses over both eyelids and on each cheek before finally kissing her mouth.

They hadn't done much of that in a long time. 

Steve considered the roll of quarters again, searching every menial nook and cranny within himself for the perfect wish. Helen ruffled his hair, her cheeks rosy from the winds of love. _Wish for anything, honey._ She said. 

And Steve was a simple child. He liked turtle dove ice cream and band aid's with Spiderman on them. Steve liked his friends, and his family in Italy. He loved his parents when they weren't fighting and yelling and sleeping in separate beds, so.

He took half the roll of quarters in one hand and tossed them into the water without skipping a beat.

 _That's not how it's supposed to work, Stevie._ His father chuckled. Charles always did, back then. He didn't so much anymore. _Each quarter represents a wish, why'd you throw them all away?_

His father kissed his mothers cheek again and Steve looked back, into the shining blue water.

 _I need the extra luck_. 

\--

If Steve had a roll of quarters today and a perfect fountain of youth he'd wish for his skin back.

The old stuff, complete with all the burns and the bruises and scars he had crafted so carefully under the lamp in his bedroom. For as long as Steve could remember his flesh had told the story of his every thought and emotion, and now it was wiped clean, slate bright and gleaming under the searchlight of his eyes. 

He pulled at the hem of his sweater again to check his stomach. It was clear as a summer's day, milky and unblemished. 

"Shit." Steve sat back against the couch cushion and thought, as he rolled a match between his teeth, that he was being punished. 

After the boy left that night Steve had jacked off.

Hard and fast, shamefully rutting his hips against the stiff fabric of the pillow which had been his big home-ec final three semesters ago. The roughness of the patchwork case snubbed like a cheese grater against the sensitive skin on his thighs, and well. Steve liked is pleasure with a side of pain.

Liked the fucked-raw pretty pink shade of his flesh when he had gone a couple rounds. Loved the way his burns would catch and bleed on the fabric when his hips lost a bit of their rhythm. The pillowcase was a trusted friend and while he rutted against it that night with symphonies of _blue, gold, silver, blue, blue blue_ running through his head like a cassette stuck in the stereo--

Steve nearly doubled over at the realization that he felt nothing.

Nothing at all.

No pain. No honey-rough drag of blisters being torn open at the height of his climax, no bitterness, no agony. His skin was left milky and smooth even after his third round. Steve climbed down off the pillow and inspected the rest of his skin with laser sharp focus. 

_Something_ had changed. Healed him, taken away his mosaic and nothing he tried would remedy the curse.

Matches, candle wax, hot blades, sticking his hand in the light from the stove--Steve was playing some fucked up game of musical chairs as he searched for ways to get the artwork back. Everything _hurt_ by the time he gave up, flesh sensitive and hot from days of experimentation, but the surface remained uncharred.

Unblemished.

He tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants and relit the match now, determined.

Steve put it out again on his happy trail and leaned into the agonizing sizzle of heat that should've left his skin bleeding, scabbing over, infected, _something._ Instead Steve's flesh just looked sunburned and irritated and not at all like the mosaic of emotion he had fallen so helplessly in love with.

And maybe that took all the fun out of it.

Steve let the waistband settle against his stomach and wondered, a fresh match nestled between his teeth, how many quarters it would take to lift this curse.

\--

Party after party the boy never showed and Tommy's face never painted itself in a different light. 

Steve believed, if he drank enough cheap beer. Smoked enough weed, tossed enough quarters into the churning waters below that things would change, but. 

Cinnamon and brown clouded Steve's world, vibrant and hostile, never giving way to Californian blue once Hagan decided he was done punishing Steve for _whatever._ After weeks of radio silence Tommy lured Steve into the bathroom at Mason Smith's _not a father_ party. The news that Hawkins High's quarter back wasn't expecting a bundle of joy with the head cheerleader had everyone in the mood, so.

Hagan got his fingers around the thick of Steve's pulse.

Moved slowly, lips and teeth latching onto Steve's neck to suck a trail of bruises from earlobe to collar bone, it felt.

Incredible.

Better than Steve remembered, better than he'd ever dreamed, as he yanked Tommy's pants down around his ankles.

Steve tried to drip dominance and superiority from the throne of his knees, smirking up at the panting form above him. You _done acting like a bitch?_

Tommy just grinned, pulling Steve up-up-up until his Nike's brushed the frilling pink rug in front of the toilet. Tommy's answering blow was to scrape against the swell of Steve's throat, teeth catching hard enough to break the skin.

_Y_ _ou sound so tough panting like one, Harrington._

Steve lined himself up at the entrance like an overzealous girl on prom night, because, well.

He missed this.

Missed Tommy, with his soft skin and even softer disposition. Hagan ground his hips back, whine throaty with impatience when Steve paused to roll the condom on nice and snug. _We_ _gonna fuck me or write a love letter, Harrington? Come on._

Steve's answering call was to rock Tommy's heels off the hideous orange carpet.

Again he sought and again he took, scrawling an image of desperation against Hagan's skin with each thrust until the boy was a panting mess against the bathroom wall. Tommy clenched down with a bitten of moan and Steve was coming so hard his neck almost snapped in two.

Hagan pulled his pants up.

Took a careful swig from his beer and leaned in close, liquor burning through Steve's nose in a way that proved it--

Tommy wouldn't remember this tomorrow. Steve slapped his cheek softly, sharply, just to get a nice blush going.

Missed _you too, buddy,_ he said.

And just like that they had made up. Tommy was a nice place to keep warm, but.

Warmth didn't stop Steve from searching for blue skies.

\--

The days bled from one into the next. This person's parents were out of town, another's were home but at a dinner party, and.

The boy never showed.

Party after party Steve experimented with the recipe. Played with substances, cocaine at Mason Smiths and acid at Connie Newberg's. The colors bled one into the other, harvest gold and peachy coral. Midnight black and fairy white and blue blue blue.

Steve sat against the shed out back and counted every layer of stars.

Searched for California while Tommy sucked his brain out through his dick, and. Cream. Creamy skin, creamy pasta, cream that tasted like ten years of friendship and _I think I'm falling in love with you's._ Tommy stuck his head in the crook of Steve's shoulder and the stars fell flat.

No layers.

No colors, just. Thick fingers pushing at his head, yanking at his curls until--

"You're my best fuckin' friend, you know that?" 

Steve only knew how to swallow.

\--

Steve and Tommy.

Tommy and Steve and Carole, when she could stomach the two of them together, but. Little did she know they were always together. Nestled inside because. Hagan said Steve was his best friend his other half is right hand man, but. Steve had other friends.

Well, other friend. Singular, in the form of Barbara Holland, who had layers to her. Uneven, cut with a paring knife during the rush before a dinner party, she was. Imperfect. 

Clunky.

Awkward.

Lame, and Steve loved the absolute shit out of her in private where no one could see. The world had dimension, the universe texture, the heart a rhythm when Steve met up with her during study hall to smoke behind the library. Because.

"Fat girls get high too, Steve." 

Steve passed the roach, watching the cherry sear the tips of his fingers. Barbara tucked the thing against her thick, warm lips and opened the pencil case she carried as a backup. Inside, rolled in a coating of saran, was a blunt.

Steve whooped. "Holy shit, Barbara Holland coming in clutch!"

"Fuck, wouldja--" She whipped around, searching the shadows for someone who wasn't there. "A little _stealth_ would be nice, Harrington."

"I am stealthy."

"No you're not."

"Am." Steve took the second smoke from her, and. Wondered if his lungs had scorch marks too. "Like a ninja. Super stealth."

Barbra snorted, which.

She did a lot. For a long time Steve thought it meant something new, something _other,_ like. Superiority. Disgust. Steve took offence to it for a while, for years, because _no one_ scoffs at Steve Harrington. King Steve, but then.

He made her snort once.

During lunch, from three tables over, just. Said some bonehead thing and Barbara snorted so hard that milk went out her nose. The fool who sat at King Steve's left hand tried to. Snarl. Make the kid feel bad for laughing at King's joke, and.

Steve shut it down. With a word or a simple wave of the hand. After that everyone knew Barbra Holland was off limits. After that it was easy to share his smoke with the redheaded brain in the library during study hall. After that Steve learned the code, the ins and outs; Barbara sniffed when she found something irritating, useless, horrible, and.

Snorted when she thought something rocked. 

Or sucked, but like. In completion. In irony. So Barbara snorted at lot at Steve Harrington--shared her calculous notes and her pot and her company, because.

_You're kind of an idiot._

Steve loved the absolute shit out of her. Wished they could take their van and head toward the lunch hall, have her sit at the King's right hand snort at him out in the open air, under layers of stars, but.

"I was thinkin'." She said. And Steve listened because he liked the kid.

Loved her, even.

Barbara looked at him, eyes wide behind her glasses. "I wish I could catch on fire."

\--

Steve showed her how, and.

That was the first mistake. Barbara looked him in the eyes and said "I want to disappear."

and Steve said, "Take me with you."

Of course, it doesn't work like that. Behind the library he brought the open flame to her skin because he didn't have the resources, or the. Where with all. To know that she would burn from the inside first. 

Barbara didn't like it.

The feeling of her skin charring over, blisters peeking through like layers of stars against the midnight sky. She yanked her hand away and said, "Fuck, that's uh. Not for me"

And Steve tried not to feel like. She was breaking up with him, or something.

Barbara picked her bag off the ground and said, "I'll try something else."

Steve didn't know.

Hadn't done the research, the peer study to know--there are many ways to crack and crumble and turn to dust.

\--

Steve showed her how, and.

That was the second mistake. Steve looked her in the eyes and said, "Maybe you should go see a therapist."

and Barbara took her head from inside the toilet. "That shit doesn't work for me."

Of course, that's always a lie. Steve hauled her off ground, Nikes tangled in a flurry of yellow bathmats to clean the girl up, because. There was vomit on her chin. And blood, and something. White. Frothy. 

Steve didn't like it.

The feeling that he had caused this. The iceberg to the ship, the arrow in the balloon of her happiness. Emotions had color, hues that slipped around the walls of his heart as he ran the wash cloth over her face and said, "This is all my fault."

Barbara looked at him like. He was breaking up with her. Slicing her wide open.

She gathered a stream of water in her hands and took a sip, gulping as stray beads slid down her wrists and turned the peachy coral tint of her sweater red. Barbara pulled her own hair back from her face. "Will you help me tell my parents?"

Steve didn't know.

Hadn't figured it out--there was nothing much to tell.

\--

That was. Probably the worst thing imaginable, telling the parents. Sending in a group of hounds to rip her apart.

Barbara, she. Withered. After that, a daisy in a drought. She started showing up less and less and less to study hall after her parents thought she was going insane, and. Steve tried not to feel like she was leaving him alone in the world. Not everything was about him.

Sometimes people seemed to think it was, but.

Steve rolled his own joints and wondered. What it was like to be incendiary. 

\--

Party after Party Steve started to notice a theme. The downfall of dynasties. King Steve the Conqueror, claiming another village when Barbara showed up with Nancy Wheeler on Halloween and got so high on something jagged and sharp that she couldn't walk forward into his arms.

His fortress.

Steve stood watching from the other side of the battlefield while Barbara's kingdom fell, engulfed by flames, from the fire Steve had set loose. Barbara was calling out to him, she was. Drawing attention to herself. Steve handed Tommy his solo cup, and.

Closed the distance between them.

Brushed her outstretched hands away as easily as drifting leaves, and. Took off toward the bathroom. Nancy Wheeler followed, pulling their friend along like a tugboat out at sea. Steve shut the door behind them.

"Why are you here?"

"Wait, you _know_ each other?" Nancy asked. Which Steve ignored.

"Barbs, why are you here."

Her eyes were swimming. Back stroke, breast stroke, she fell against him nice and easy. Steve brushed the hair off her forehead, slapped those rosy cheeks when her eyes began to droop. "Baby love, gotta tell me what kinda pills you swallowed."

"Tasted like candy--"

Nancy Wheeler was pacing in front of the door. "She took something, like. Blue, I think?"

Barbara poked his nose. "Sweet tarts and sour patch kids."

Steve held her closer. 

Felt her drifting off, away, when she threw up down the front of his shirt. He dragged Barbara to the sink--toward the water, toward land, Steve didn't know. He let her sit on the ground because her legs had stopped working, and.

King Steve. He started the fire that burned her up.

He waved toward the hall. "Nancy, I need you to call the police, okay? Call the cops." _in-out-in._ Deep breaths when Barbara gripped his arm and tugged him close-close-closer.

Nancy took off, like.

A shot in the dark. A frightened bird let out of his cage.

Barbara looked up at him from the floor, from her isle in front of the sink.

The bathmats were blue against her skin. Ice and snow. 

The end.

"Close the door," She said. "It's cold."

\--

If Steve had a roll of quarters and a pair of Californian blue eyes to throw them in, he'd wish for Barbara to grip his hand. 

"Harder, baby, come on." His voice didn't sound like his own. She was lulling, again. 

Slipping under.

Steve sounded like he was drowning. "Come on, baby, squeeze my hand nice and tight."

"Can't." That voice, it was. The wrath of God. Someone was standing in the doorway. Taking up space, sucking all the air from the room. Steve tore his eyes away from Barbara, from the sea from green lipstick her skin had painted, and.

There he was.

Leather jacket and fingerless gloves. Naked underneath a gossamer curtain of beer, and. California leaned against the doorframe. Puffing on a cigarette that had materialized out of nowhere. Steve ran his fingers through Barbara's hair.

"I'm not ready for this." He said.

California hummed. "They never are."

"She's not ready, she. Can't be." He looked up at the boy again, at the softness that had perverted his gaze. Steve looked like he was choking on blood and vomit and frothy white stars when he asked, "Can I make an exchange?"

The boy squatted down next to him, blue clouding Steve's world over the.

Symphony.

Mosaic, of. Nothing that had taken Barbara's place. The boy brushed his fingers through Steve's hair softly, brows pulled together in confusion. "How's that, pretty boy?"

"Whatever you did to me, to. My skin can I? Exchange it? Or like." He took a deep breath, squeezing Barbara's hand again. "A life for a life?"

California looked like he was covered in rain. "Doesn't work like that."

"She didn't call for you."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

Steve shook his head. "Please."

The boy watched him for. The amount of time it took to let the rain fall. Steve whimpered when the boy took removed his jacket, and.

Took his hand.

The gentle brush of wings pulled Steve in. Close-close-closer, until California said, "We'll do it together."

And.

There are endless ways to crack and crumble and turn to dust.

**Author's Note:**

> There’s a mood board for this over on the ole tumblr: 
> 
> https://passivenovember.tumblr.com/post/629286848969244672/everything-i-see-i-swallow


End file.
